Remember Me
by Incantrix
Summary: The Sequel to Chartres. Mireille and Kirika have settled down in Paris after their life in Noir. But forces unknown to them plot against their best ambitions...a continuing novel fict...
1. (1) Proposal

Yep, it's another Noir fict. This time, we're going for length! I will be adding chapters to this work about every 4 to 6 weeks. Oh, and this lovely piece of work is a sequel to 'Chartres', my first Noir work, which is also here! (heh, go look for it yourself!)   
  
Oh you didn't want to read the first story? Well…it had Kirika and Mireille buying a small café...well, ok, that's just the end of it... ^_-   
  
And we're going for a little lighter tone in the beginning of the story -- I can't keep it dark and foreboding forever, can I? Watch for lots of clues in these intro chapters, I need to drop them in like mad. And then as we go on, let's say I have it all written down in my head, you're see how it all links together.  
  
- Incantrix  
_____________________________  
  
  
It is time to discover the past…once again.   
  
Characters in this work are owned by the creators of Noir. The author of this fan fiction therefore only owns the writings. Yep, this is the lovely disclaimer. This copyright is 2002 under Devin A. Brown.  
  
_____________________________  
  
  
  
Remember Me  
  
  
by Incantrix  
  
a Noir Novel...  
  
  
_____________________________  
(1) Proposal  
  
  
  
"Here you go, miss." Kirika handed the customer a wax bag filled with delicate sweet pastries. "Be sure you handle it from the bottom."  
  
"Oh, I am so happy!" squealed the older customer. "I've traveled an hour to get here! My sister told me you have the best pastries in the whole city of Paris."  
  
"Oui. We do try..." Kirika suddenly blushed from the compliment. "That will be thirty-seven francs, please."  
  
"Oh, no problem whatsoever." The cheery customer turned around to exit the little café. "I'll be back next week, for my niece's party! I can't wait!"  
  
Kirika smiled as the front door bell chimed as their patron left. "Gretchen?" she asked. "Can you take over for me? I've got to check a couple of things."   
  
A young girl of approximately Kirika's age came out from the back kitchen. The two of them had builds like identical twins. Their looks were extraordinary different, for Gretchen's hair was fiery red with curls, as opposed to Kirika's spiky brunette look. She was wearing over her t-shirt and jeans a kitchen apron matching Kirika's, a basic off-white decorated with large sunflowers. The cute pattern had become the cheery theme of the café.   
  
"Sure! No problem." said Gretchen, adding another set of chocolate croissants to the display case. "We've been so busy today! I can't ever remember making so many pastries."  
  
"Business is good." Kirika nodded for a second, before taking off her apron and placing it onto the counter, folding it carefully so it wouldn't crease. "Excuse me."  
  
"Oh Kirika?" asked Gretchen, getting Kirika to turn around. "I need to leave early to go to the Dentist. You know, the one you recommended to me?"  
  
"Oh, is that today? You can leave early, just tell me first."  
  
"Merci beaucoup, Kirika-sama!"  
  
The brunette arched her eyebrow up in surprise at the mix of the polite French thank you and Japanese honorific. It certainly was an interesting mix. Telling Gretchen that she was Japanese had given the young girl quite a shock. But Gretchen took it all in stride, for after a few days, she started doing research from the number of websites, trying out all sorts of Japanese cultural references.  
  
Kirika sighed. No use in telling the girl that she was more French than anything. She certainly wasn't Japanese, that much was true. Especially with past history….   
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Kirika walked around the front outside of the café, a sunny area of a half dozen little round tables, covered with red and white checkered cloths, which in turn were covered over by a thick layer of clear plastic. The unnatural layer of silicon was a necessary evil, it made leaning on the tables a bit uncomfortable due to stickiness, but easier in the long run in cleaning and wiping away baking crumbs and nasty spills.  
  
The seating area was very much coveted, the tables were always filled with a mix of local patrons and tourists, chatting away and sipping their variety of espressos, teas, and cappuccinos. The locals were very easy to spot, they took hours on end to sit and watch, occasionally conversing daily activities with their friends. A local was said to be relaxed, as if watching a turtle walk by on a slow day.  
  
Tourists, on the hand, never really looked at ease. They would sit down with a drink; ten minutes later their soda glass was empty along with the ice. Without a liquid refreshment, a tourist would fondle, bend and chew their drink straws to death. And instead of relaxing and taking all the scenery of Paris, their heads bobbed from left and right like a pigeon, expecting birdseed to be thrown plainly at their feet.  
  
Behind the outside tables were huge swinging full length windows, the breezing air that made the same patrons consistent customers. Those windows had been swung wide open during the summer days, at the insistence of Kirika. Those tables just inside the café were the second most popular among the patrons.  
  
That is where Kirika found her partner, Mireille, curled up among the outside corner of their café. She was sipping a lazy iced coffee, its ice long since melted away. On the far side of the roundish table were the Le Deux Croissant's business papers, of fresh printouts from the accountant of their cash flows and account payables. On top of those printouts were a variety of bills and notices over the last couple of weeks, all ready for the blond to process and pay.  
  
Mireille was instead busy reading the local paper, pouring over the society pages. She heard her partner almost immediately, and did not even bother to turn around. The blond instead pointed to a picture, of a lovely young woman in summer dress, attending one of the many private affairs among Paris. "Don't you think this hat would look lovely on me?"  
  
Kirika nodded.  
  
"Looks nice," said Mireille. "I wish I could get it, then maybe some nice gentleman would notice me from across the street." The blond sighed, folding the paper away. "I haven't had a date in years. Sometimes I wonder why that's the case."  
  
Kirika sat down, her seat also facing outward onto the sunny street. "You really should get out more. It might make you…a little more relaxed." Kirika bit her lip at the words but Mireille didn't really notice. She decided to press to the issue. "I haven't seen you out with anyone. What if you saw Gretchen's older brother?"  
  
Mireille frowned. "Yea, you would think a girl like me would get excited over flowers and such. Maybe I'm just too old-fashioned, but the thought of be being romanced over doesn't really appeal to me." She looked over the papers, as if they were a mistrustful informant.  
  
"I see you haven't even touched your work." The brunette nodded over to the stack of papers and printouts on the far side of the table. "I think maybe the stack is getting a bit big."   
  
Mireille stretched her arm out, pushing the papers a bit more over to the far hand side of the table. "I should, but I don't. Waiting in the accounting office for two hours today was enough work for me."  
  
The brunette frowned. "We should pay those bills soon..."  
  
"You know me so well, Kirika. Sometimes, I wish that we were back in business. Then I could afford to buy hats like that." She brought the paper back onto the table, looking through some of the other articles. "That would have been nice."  
  
"We get paid plenty for the café," said the brunette. "I think we need to hire a couple of more people, since so busy right now. I've been so tired..." As if right on key, Kirika yawned and tried to shut her yawn almost immediately. "I need to work less."  
  
The blond chuckled under her breath. "I still need to go over the numbers, but the accountant was smiling so wide when I picked up these printouts today. Even I was very surprised how much money we're making." Mireille took another sip of her iced coffee, the temperature had clearly warmed her drink to a unbearable level. "Ugh."  
  
"Mireille." Kirika tilted her head to the side, getting her partner's attention.  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"What if...we took your suggestion, and went back to work?" Kirika took a minute to tumble the words out. "What do you think would have happened?"   
  
Mireille almost dropped her warmed coffee right there. "Kirika! But this is..."  
  
"It's the Soldats, am I right?"  
  
The blond nodded, staring down at the checkerboard table. "They gave me a choice to work for them in the business, or...exit out." She looked back up at her partner. "I look at what we've done here. Its good. Its very good."  
  
Kirika beamed. "I know. I have been satisfied. Baking, cooking..." However, the brunette could detect the darker tones from Mireille and her lack of enthusiasm. "But...you're not happy here, are you?"  
  
The blond impatiently tapped her fingers on the table. "I don't know. I know I'm safe here, it feels so warm, inviting, comfortable. Its really a pleasure to sit out on a corner table and not have a pair or two pairs of eyes, watching your every step..."  
  
"But?"  
  
Mireille turned back to Kirika. "I miss the thrill, the chase. My life is so boring now." She pointed down at the society pages. "I can't believe I spend every day reading this dribble! I mean, so I can learn that Mr. Richy-Rich and so is marrying Ms. Muffy? I mean, I'm tired of it."  
  
"Ummm..."  
  
"Only if I had a nice fat contract. I would feel good to run around again with my gun pointed outward, looking, hunting…" The blond took a minute to stretch her legs while still seated. "Now, the only time I get to run is on a treadmill. I take some kickboxing class and beat up the instructor. That isn't that thrilling in my book."  
  
Kirika was silent.  
  
"Did I miss anything?"   
  
"No, I guess not..." She took Mireille's finished glass and her own drink up from the table, stacking them together in her hand. "There's another batch of pastries to make up. Excuse me-"  
  
The two Noir partners looked up for a second. Gretchen was coming onto the floor, being closely followed by man behind her. He was clean-cut, with spiky white hair and a clef chin. He wore slightly tinted sunglasses, the small circular shades just barely covering his eyes. Simply dressed could describe the rest of his clothes, a plain gray shirt and blue jeans, the typical signs of a tourist outfit.   
  
"Ummm...this guy asked for you, Mireille," said Gretchen.  
  
"Carlos!" grinned the blond, bolting out of her chair. "Carlos de Guadia."  
  
"Hello, Mireille. Its been a long time." His voice was mature, very mature for the such a young-looking man. They lightly hugged for a second/   
  
"Sit down!" Mireille pointed to a chair that Kirika brought over from the back. Carlos gracious accepted the offer as the three of them sat down around the small café table. "This is Kirika, my partner at the café."  
  
"Hai." Kirika half-hearted a wave not much else. "Can I get you anything."  
  
"Oh no, I'm good! Really!" After a polite no-thank you, the stranger turned his attention toward Mireille as he leaned back in his chair. "Now instead of one beautiful lady, I am very much at the mercy of two striking women. I should not ever be so lucky."  
  
Both girls blushed. "I see you have not lost that lovely 'charm' of yours," said Mireille.   
  
Carlos smiled. "No, I suppose not. Not, how long has it been? I'd have to say definitely more than a year."  
  
"That's for sure. Its been a bit less than two years, I think. Oh, and the last assignment we were on was in Myorka. Wasn't that to most beautiful vacation spot? I remember the coast of Spain like it was yesterday."  
  
"You mean for you!" exclaimed the gentlemen, "I had to spend all my surveillance shifts inside, hunched over camera and infra-red equipment. It wasn't my fault after the island stop that we didn't-"  
  
"Carlos?" Mireille looked at the young man inquisitively. "Make no mistake, my friend. Never to make that mistake with me." For as quick as the seriousness had entered Mireille's voice, it quickly drained away a couple of seconds later.   
  
"I'm sorry..." he stammered. "But, I...didn't bring it up."  
  
Mireille brushed her hair back. "I guess you're right, Carlos. I can be wrong."  
  
"Oh course I am. What else would you expect of me?" And the white-haired boy smiled. "At least I can have the pleasure of two lovely young associates, can't I? There's nothing wrong with an introduction to an evening out…"  
  
Kirika blushed from a light pink to a deep red.  
  
"Bite that forked tongue of yours, dear boy," laughed Mireille. "This is Kirika, my friend and business partner. And she's too young for you."  
  
"I bed your pardon..." said Kirika. "I am plenty old enough to date..."  
  
Carlos smirked. "Oh, and I never thought in my lifetime that your partner would ever be a she?"  
  
Mireille ignored Carlos' question, staring him down before focusing her attention to Kirika. "Carlos, is, unfortunately, one of the best tech guy there is in the field. If you need to watch, have cameras, record or track, he's your man."  
  
"I've never heard of Carlos before." said Kirika.  
  
The blond smirked. "Oh, I know why. That's because Carlos has a handle, like we used to. They call him the 'Eye of the Masons.'"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Carlos interjected. "I was never really good at play on words, unlike you two." Mireille bemused herself to the young man's comments, preferring not to bring up history. "You see, I took the symbol from the Masons, an eye on a pyramid. The eye, is obviously, me, with the pyramid being the state. There's no denying that I have become much of that, for I only show the truth of the state?"  
  
"The truth?" Mireille's eyebrow shot up at Carlos' words. "I don't think you've ever given me a straight response in my life."  
  
The young man straightened up in his chair. "What? About being beautiful?"   
  
Kirika coughed. Wow, thought the brunette, this guy lays it on pretty thick...   
  
"Carlos..." asked Mireille, crossing her arms in a manner of distaste. "This wasn't a pure social call, was it?"  
  
"No, of course no." The blond tightened up a bit on hearing Carlos' news. "Relax, I'm sure were not being watched -- too much." The young man sighed ever so slightly. "It's the only way to live -- as a guy on the run, you know. You do a deed, and if its wrong, you pay the penalty. Nothing wrong with that system."  
  
"You haven't taken me on a straight track in years," grimaced Mireille. "You still can't go back to Italy, can you? Its really a shame that you did that."  
  
"Nonsense, it was the best thing to do." The young man stretched his hands behind him. "A piece of cake, actually. Break into the system that controls all the lights, change the patterns a bit, and convince the government that you can do your worst, when you want to..."  
  
"Your worst?" asked Kirika.  
  
Mireille chuckled. "What a baka you are."  
  
"Oh yes, excuse me. I never really did say how. The traffic system in Rome, specifically the roads around the old coliseum. Broke into their central system, messed up a couple of lines of code, and presto -- instant disaster in the running, by me of course."  
  
Kirika didn't flinch one bit. "But why mess up the lights of Rome?"  
  
Mireille pulled Kirika aside. "Actually, to keep the police in traffic. Away...from a museum or two."  
  
The brunette turned back to Carlos. "Ah. So, you're a hacker, Mr. Guadia, hired by the thieves."   
  
"Alas, I didn't know. I was just ordered to hack it and mess it up a bit," sighed Carlos. "Oh, and I'm technically not a hacker, though that's what the authorities call me. I prefer information manager, or fact manipulator. Or phreaker. Only the police call me a hacker."  
  
"I see. And that's why you can't go back to Italy?"  
  
"That about surmises it. A friend chewed me out to the local police, and naturally I couldn't let them take my ass in...It wouldn't have been fair. At least an informant was able to alert me to their little plan and tip me off. Nothing worse than seeing a 5,000,000 Lira award go up in smoke.  
  
Kirika nodded. "You are a mischievous one, Carlos."  
  
The blond turned back to Carlos. "Well, this has been real fun, all and that. War stories entertaining to no end. But that doesn't explain the biggest item on the plate."  
  
"And that is?"  
  
"Why you're here. Always the intelligent one, you've known that we're out of the business." Mireille pointed around to the café and its surroundings. "Can't you see that we're legit?"  
  
"Nonsense. I don't believe that of you." Mireille wanted to interrupt Carlos, but her changed facial expression explained it all. "I can see you're angry, Mireille. And it was just for some standard surveillance and stuff. I need some bodyguards, that's all."  
  
The blond arched her eyebrows in disbelief. "Oh, so you need me the chaperone your party? And here I thought you'd finally grown up."  
  
"You know," said Carlos, "girls with guns are the great equalizer in the world. In case anything happens during the meeting and all."  
  
"Oh, really?" responded Kirika, "That doesn't sound too hard-"  
  
Mireille was in shock as she gawked over at her former associate. She couldn't believe Carlos was asking for business help -- and that Kirika was about to pitch in. "This discussion is over, Carlos."  
  
"But..." Carlos pleaded his case.  
  
"I said OVER," said Mireille, her eyes crossed over in disgust. "We have plans."  
  
Kirika shrugged her shoulders. "Sorry, but we're busy. It takes a lot of time to make lemon tarts."  
  
The younger man stood up. "Fine. I can find other people. If you want me, I'm staying in the far west area of the city, at the Madagascar Hotel. You know I'm online as well." The hacker bowed his head. "Oh, and Kirika, very nice to meet you. You are a charming young lady."  
  
The brunette nodded pleasantly as Carlos got up and left the café. She turned to the blond. "He's cute."  
  
"Kirika!"  
  
"Hmmm. You know, he would be nice wrapped around my arm."  
  
Mireille heaved a sigh. "Growing up in front of me like that. Really, I should have noticed it -- that you want to date Gretchen's brother."  
  
Kirika turned her head. "Come on, we've got some paperwork to go over."  
  
The blond relaxed. "I guess you're right. Lead the way."  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Kirika had another busy afternoon around the café. The tourist had hit them particularly hard -- an overcrowded tour bus had dropped off a boatload of them on the recommendation of a local hotel. She was going to have to thank the hotel later, or curse them -- depending how tired she was by the end of the day.   
  
And they were tourist all right -- their whitish t-shirts, color-worn shorts, and knee high white socks were all shocking signs of American symbolism. The group had obliviously been museum hopping in the nearby district, their impressionistic bags held goodies from the nearby Musée d'Orsey.   
  
She sighed. Speaking in English wasn't really a problem. In fact, Gretchen spoke English as well, as she loved to talk the overseas tourists about upcoming movies and Hollywood stars. If there was even a French girl who loved the Hollywood life, it was Gretchen. She was smitten by all the love, power, and other worldly excitements. "Oh," said the young girl, "I can't wait to go to California and go check out the homes of the stars! Oh? You can't go up to their front door and knock for autographs? Why not?"  
  
Those love to hate tourists always seemed to run out of francs. For Kirika, cashing a travelers check was nothing more than a pain in the butt, as the tourist always complained about the lack of change in francs. Still, it was good money, and the American tourists often left tips.   
  
Kirika was busy cleaning off the last used rounds when she noticed a folded strip of paper lying on the very far table. After a quick crumb wipe, Kirika walked over to the distraction she caught from the corner of her eye. Strange, she thought, no one had been sitting in this corner place. One couple did sit down, the small roundish table rocking a bit while in they leaned over their seats. After a quick look underneath, they found two of the three leg coasters were missing, causing the table to slightly lisp and rock. With little fanfare, the couple fled to different seats.  
  
Kirika didn't think too much else of it, grabbing for the scrap of paper. Strange, she thought, the paper was folded over a bit. Looking into her open palm, the mobius strip propped up from its former crushed position. The simple strip of banded of paper was twisted half-over connecting to itself. It was a perfect example of a mobius strip -- an object with only one side.  
  
Kirika squinted a closer look. Yes, she could just make out the simple typed characters running the infinite loop around the mobius strip. It was just one character, repeated around in the endless circle that the strip formed.   
  
'i'  
  
A children's toy, a foolish plaything that one of the tourists had left, thought Kirika. They must have picked it up from some other museum or place of interests. She didn't think much about it, crinkling the paper toy and depositing it into the circular file.  
  
The brunette sighed. She needed to bake off another three sheet pans of plain croissants for the morning rush. Her work was never done. She was thinking that maybe her partner could help, but the blond had already split the cafe for the day. It was probably for the better.  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Mireille sat down in her comfy chair next to her pool table of a table. Red velvet, she thought. I should have never had a red pool table put in. What was I thinking? I mean, it doesn't match my blouse at all! What if I want to get a different color? And damn it, its not like I can just get it re-done.   
  
Trivial thoughts lead to the more important issues of the day. She thought back to the job that Carlos had asked for. She was surprised that Carlos was needing them for some extra protection, the 'snake in the grass' had never really needed help since going out on his own. Most hacker work could be done from almost anywhere, for Mireille was sure Carlos had little safe houses in half a dozen locations around the world.  
  
Bah, the job was probably already gone, it being a week later. No use fretting over lost income.  
  
Mireille's computer beeped. E-mail. She lazily opened her new message, half expectantly to find some junk e-mail, as her e-mail account was now forwarding from her new 'The Deux Croissant' website.   
  
She read the message. Read it again. With no hesitation, Mireille reached under her pool table for her gun, and headed out the door.  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Mireille circled around the trees. She certainly didn't like all this cover stuff away from her partner, but it was more than necessary to keep Kirika out of contact. To keep her away from the Soldats.  
  
It was the Soldats that had tipped her off about Kirika's work. They had given her a choice -- to work for them, or to leave the business entirely. They, had chosen to leave the business of the under lords, to seek themselves out the dark, to leave the blackness of Noir.   
  
To Mireille, it was their only choice.  
  
She looked back into the darkness of Noir. Formed to carry the mission of judgment of the world. But when there was no judge, no executioner of the Soldats by Noir, the prophesy collapsed. They, Mireille and Kirika, had abducted the mantle, deserting the will of Atlena. They were no longer Noir, and in Mireille's mind, it was over.  
  
Sitting down at the park bench, Mireille quickly unfolded the local paper. There wasn't much interesting in Paris in the middle of August, with the city being overrun by tourist from the states. She had always thought of the foreigners to be as rude as possible -- it was expected for her and every Parisian to use English as well as their own native language of French. She didn't mind it so, being well-traveled and tolerant. But that wasn't the case with every Parisian, for the French were well-regarded for being narrow-minded. Even bigoted. Oh well, nobody's perfect.  
  
"Excuse me, mademoiselle. Could you help me out please?" It was a younger looking fellow, dressed in a casual suit jacket. "I was looking for the Musée du Louvre, and I ended up in this large park. Can you point me in the right direction?" His English language was impeccable, she had guessed that he was a typical tourist from the states as well.  
  
Mireille grinned, speaking in English. "It's the other way, sir. Turn around and walk along with the park on your right. Its up on the right side, about ten blocks away. You can't miss the glass pyramids along the left, sticking among the trees."  
  
"Sure, sounds great." The English blond sat down on the park bench right next to Mireille. He was a nice looking one, in his late twenties or possibility early thirties. Casually yet formal dressed up, the clothes were just a bit much for the hot August weather, especially the tweed jacket. "Mind if I sit down for a second? Its quite hot out there, and I'm not used to it when it gets this warm."   
  
"Oh really? And I thought the states were hot during the summer season?" The blond was annoyed that this stranger was sitting down now, for why couldn't the baka just move on and get to the museum? Now, here he was, hanging around and annoying the crap out of her. He wasn't a bad looking chap, after all, Mireille hadn't been out on a date in who-knows how long. Maybe It would be nice to go out for a bottle of wine or two? After all, his straight yet short blond hair gave the stranger such a nice 'prep' look.  
  
"Oh, and I was hoping you could show me down there. Perhaps a stroll along the road?"  
  
Her mind struggled back to her task at hand. Business -- and the meeting she was waiting for. She had to scare him off. "I don't think you would like being here when my boyfriend shows up. He doesn't take too kindly to strangers, especially to ones from overseas, I'm afraid."  
  
"Nonsense. I very much doubt your boyfriend is showing up."  
  
The blond rolled her eyes. Wow, she thought, how confident and smug can a guy get? "He's six foot three, mister. And he loves to box."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure he does, in your dreams." The young man got up from his seat. "Now, how about that walk I promised you?"  
  
Mireille wanted to turn to the foreigner and beat the stuffing out of him. How rude, she thought, to be hitting on me so cruelly. She had been a polite woman before, and now he was sticking to her like bees on honey. They were more than in a public place, with plenty of cops within an earshot of their position. It would make a physical encounter extremely uncomfortable.   
  
"Maybe if I knew who you were waiting for, I might have a better idea. But then, Soldats aren't known to miss appointments until now."  
  
Mireille whirled around at her tourist visitor, stunned. This chap was saying the Soldats weren't coming to the meeting! Was he crazy?  
  
She quickly regrouped into her formal business mode, putting together the pieces. "Then, I would have to assume that you sent the message."  
  
"You're right about that one. Wanted to get your attention." The stranger tourist looked down at Mireille with his hand outstretched. "So, for the last time I suppose, how about that walk you promised me?"  
  
Mireille groaned. Hit on twice in one day was a bit much, even in her book. Nevertheless, she didn't protest as she grabbed the stranger's hand and stood up. "I guess you know all about me. How about the pleasure of your name?"  
  
"Morgan Carver. Al least that's what people call me in my world." The blond man shifted away a bit under Mireille's gaze. "I must apologize for the ruse, but then why can't we have a little fun on the way."  
  
Maybe, thought the blond, shooting him wouldn't be such a bad idea. "Tell me what you want. I don't like to be double-switched."  
  
"Well, I can't tell you much, I'm afraid. But recently, my group has uncovered the Soldats from clues in the last few months. We don't know much about them, except of leaked incidents that have become much scattered around the news the last few months. Especially in France, where an entire village had been slaughtered, by some previous unknown group. We now believe these recent activities are connected to, a group that you know as well, to be the Soldats."  
  
Mireille nodded. This guy was smart as well, tracking down her connection to the group and finding her e-mail. What else was Morgan capable of? "Excuse me for the bother, but I don't like being crossed, especially when it deals with the Soldats."  
  
"I see. Have they threatened you?"  
  
Mireille stammered, turning to her visitor. This guy has got to be kidding, she thought. Unless he was just playing parlor tricks. "No. We had some...dealings, that's all."  
  
"I see." Morgan thumbed around his jacket, bringing a small notebook to light. "Our records show that you have worked on contract with the Soldats. Though we believe that is no longer is the case."  
  
"You're government, aren't you?" she asked. "That's the way government handles a contact case, isn't it. They get former associates of an organization, pretend to be the contact, and get them to rat out for their protection." She turned around away from Morgan, unimpressed. "I don't snitch, its not my job."  
  
Morgan looked up from his scribbled pad. "You're reputation does live up to your hype, Ms. Bouquet. I can say that you are correct, I do work a governmental agency. American, in fact. Perhaps you've heard of the CIA."  
  
"I never expected an outside agency, no less an American operation, to be interests my little exploits, Mr. Carver."   
  
"Please, call me Morgan." He placed his fingertips on Mireille's arm. "No reason to be so formal after our little chat. After all, can't I be your friend?"  
  
Mireille pulled her arm away. "No reason? Let's see. First, calling me out here, pretending to be the Soldats. That takes some information. Then, enticing me with your rather piggish words. I'm not that kind of girl. And third, I don't work well with government agencies. You have a file on me, and you know that I have been out of the business for almost a year."  
  
"All that is true." Morgan pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and ignited it with a lighter in one motion. "Well, maybe everything except that part with the pig. You would think I don't like being compared to a farm animal. Nevertheless, we do know that you are out of the loop. Our intel isn't the greatest, but we do keep feelers out there." He took a puff on her cigarette, in an annoyed matter. "Are really retired, Mireille?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What a shame." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few glossy pictures. "Then your meeting with this gentleman..." Morgan dropped each picture of alternate angles into Mireille's open palms. "Was just a nice visit over a cup a tea?"  
  
"Exactly. He's a friend. I don't mind telling you, because you probably know that already."  
  
"Oh? He's still a friend after Italy?"  
  
Mireille head swung around. "Yes, damn it! What he does is none of my business!"  
  
"Oh, that Carlos is still active on jobs?" Morgan took another drag on his smoke. "I already know that, no thanks to you, I'm afraid."  
  
"Then what do you want?" asked Mireille.  
  
They had reached well down the side of the park, the glass inverted pyramid of the Louvre could been seen popping over the trees. Its dark reflection hid parts of the classical styled building from behind it. At first, the local Parisians couldn't stand I.M. Pei's new addition to their historical monument to art. But over time, locals opinion swayed from disgust to complete adoption of the mix of old and new. And if someone was to have removed the for mentioned new addition, Mireille was sure it would raise a bigger stink than its initial construction.  
  
The agent pulled his arm away. "Mireille," answered Morgan, "I want to you work with Carlos. He has another team, but they...I suppose..." Morgan smiled delightfully at Mireille, "are about to be arrested. I'm afraid its all bad timing on their part."  
  
"What a shame." Mireille pointed her gun up at the government operative. "I could shoot you now, or you could take me home and I'd shoot you later."   
  
Morgan nearly jumped out his shoes at Mireille's statement.   
  
She cocked the safety off of her gun, holding it convincingly up at Morgan. "I think you mind enjoy being taken home and shot in bed. Is this how you like to play your games?"  
  
Morgan held his open palm up. "No reason to fry me, Mireille. I have five shooters pointed right at your head." He raised his other hand a bit, signaling an 'up' motion.  
  
Mireille looked behind her, keeping her gun sites on Morgan. Nevertheless, she looked up.   
  
From a faraway building, two black hats poked up from a roof from a faraway white townhouse. Each of the sharpshooter's eyes were covered in sunglasses, their black outfits stuck out like sore thumbs in the daylight. Unsurprised, Mireille could only turn her head back with a stare of contempt.  
  
"Tell me what you want." said Mireille, keeping her gun covered onto Morgan.   
  
"We need the information that Carlos is being delivered. A copy, that's all. Once you have it, you are to deliver it back to me. Then, I can make sure those nasty governments record of your exploits mysteriously disappear."  
  
"What if I don't choose to work with you…and your kind?"  
  
"Well, then. I guess I have no choice to try to take you and Kirika down. It would be a shame to lose that nice coffee shop you have downtown. The pastries from what I've heard are rather good."  
  
"Bastard. I should have spotted the snake in you were right away."  
  
Morgan frowned, lowering his hands. "Tisk, tisk. I would never take advantage of you, ever like that. No, not at all."   
  
Mireille sighed, lowering her weapon, locking and hiding it among her tight waist. "I have no choice at the moment." She looked down as she stepped closer to Morgan with her eyes.  
  
"Ah, that is much better. I am very glad that you have accepted our offer. I will make sure that Langley does thank you for your support, unofficially of course."  
  
*SLAP*   
  
She wanted to shoot him badly. Maybe killing him would be a bad idea, but wounding his pride -- that would be much more effective. A shot in a foot would be better, the poor bastard would live and hobble for a month or so on a cane.  
  
No, shooting her gun was out of the question. She wouldn't be surprised if this was audiotaped, videotaped, and watched by over a dozen governmental associates. That's why the clean open-faced slap to the right cheek was so effective.  
  
Morgan winced his face in pain. "I guess I deserve that. After all, that bistro down the street would have been a nice meal." He felt the cheek burn off the fingertips of his hand. "I don't suppose dinner is still on?"  
  
"It was never on to begin with." Mireille trailed off, disgusted.   
  
  
[++++++]   
  
  
Kirika slowly sipped on her evening tea. It was just after dinner, and the petite brunette had recently switched to herbal teas so she wouldn't be up all night -- after all, the 5:30 am breakfast shift was nothing more than a pain in a neck.  
  
She was busy flipping through one of Mireille magazines, Paris MATCH. It was the standard of the day, documenting the many social habits of upper-crust Parisians. She spotted a rare sample sale ad, folding the page over before turning to the next section.  
  
Frankly, she was a bit bored. Stale. The bakery had been a wonderful idea, enough to get her busy everyday. She had counted on endless hours in rolling out dough, letting it rise, and filling each perfectly made pastry with a delicate amount of homemade preserves. Relaxing and home spinning, was something very unrelated to her former business. Even slight bored, it all had been a wonderful experience for the mind.  
  
She looked back onto the counter by the window. Paint brushes laid dry upon stale paper towels. She had not even bothered to remove them from their last cleaning step, and put the brushes away. The dough rolling, waiting on customers, the making of countless cappuccinos and espressos -- well, frankly, Kirika was pooped and too tired to clean up at home.   
  
Still, she worked up the energy to put her brushes away, pulling them off of towels. They stuck a bit, often ripping the papery towel to shreds. It took a couple of more seconds to de-towel the brushes before stacking them back into her artist bag.  
  
"Haven't had much time to paint lately, huh?" Mireille smiled from the kitchen, fetching herself some spring water before bed. With all the habits that Kirika had, the one that Mireille refused to go along with was Kirika's switch to herbal teas.   
  
Mireille bitterly complained the first time Kirika tried to serve her an herbal tea. "What is this apple stuff, anyway?" She growled so much that Kirika was temped to brew two tea pots from then on.  
  
But them Mireille had purchased some sparkling water from the store down the street, along with some fresh limes. Now, her nightly drink had suddenly switched from tea to the carbonated mix. And when Mireille was in a really bad mood, she would lace her carbonated drink with grenadine for that kick of sweetness.   
  
"What about a different flavor?" asked Mireille, taking a large sip with her straw. It was only way to drink the grenadine-laced water, for each time the blond poured the red sweetly-laced syrup, it would fall through the iced water to the bottom of the glass. Thus, the blond constantly stirred up the iced mixture, then sipped it to prevent herself from drinking the pure sugar.   
  
The flavored drink was quickly becoming Mireille's signal flag, 'I'm in a bitch mood, don't bother me.' Kirika didn't point out the fact, she just quietly prepped another pot of tea for herself.   
  
Nevertheless, Mireille was here, asking Kirika for some tea as well...  
  
"Sure. How about some light regular tea with fresh lemons?" She was sure that the lemony water might entice her partner for a change in pace.  
  
"OK. You're the brew master tonight."  
  
Kirika was busy slicing one open in her left palm, her right hand applying all the pressure. She twisted it violently in her hand, cutting through the difficult outer lemon rind.  
  
"...ouch!!"  
  
"Kirika!" The blond dashed up from the couch and into the kitchen area. "What in the world did you do?"  
  
Kirika had grabbed some napkins and was holding her fist closed with paper towels. They were starting to redden with blood. "Oh, just a little accident. I didn't mean to do it, but..."  
  
"But nothing. You're never this foolish around the kitchen." Mireille applied a hand towel onto Kirika's hand and lifted it into the air. "Now keep that up there for five minutes, letting the wound heal. We'll take a look at that in a second."  
  
Kirika nodded.  
  
"Well, at least you're ok." Mireille mad herself busy, cleaning up Kirika's accident on the counter, washing the knife and throwing away the useless lemon. "There, all done. How about sitting down on the couch for a second."  
  
"Guess so..." The brunette sulked onto the couch, keeping her hand high by leaning it over the backrest. She was definitely not in the mood for tea anymore. "I can't believe I did that..."  
  
"Has something been on your mind?" asked Mireille.  
  
"Well, now that you mentioned it..." Kirika zipped over her latest thoughts. A pear tart she wanted to try out, that Gretchen had obtained from her mother. A 'secret family' recipe that Kirika had been dying to try out. Or was it Mireille's rather complex relationship to Carlos, who had bantered about a job for the two of them. A man that had once shared a past with Mireille.   
  
No, it was something else. Something was bothering her...about the truth. But what about this? She knew the truth now. About the Soldats, and Atlena. Noir. She had accepted her past as true Noir.   
  
She thought back to her other mysteries. The mobius on the table, left there today. Something like that was like water on the brain, for Kirika it continually reminded herself of something. Was it truth? It has nothing to do with truth. I? It was written on the mobius. What do I have to do with truth? It really didn't make any sense to her...  
  
"Kirika..." Mireille's words brought back a sense of reality. "We need to talk about something?"  
  
"Hmmm?" The brunette looked up.  
  
"Well...you see. I was approached today by a government agent." She looked distressed, grinding her teeth at being taken advantage of by Morgan. "He asked us to do something."  
  
'What..." Kirika turned back to her tea kettle on the table, giving her half-empty teacup a spot of refreshment. "Does he know we're not in business anymore?"  
  
"Yes. The guy is smart, he's knows were not freelance anymore. I don't meet contacts out in the field anymore. Its just too risky." She was about to spill the reason -- the real reason for her meeting was to meet Soldats. But she clammed up, didn't want to tell her all the past history. Some things were better left unsaid.   
  
"Anyway, he asked us to do the job -- for Carlos, that is. If we don't, then..." Mireille leaned her head down at Kirika. She could not even look her partner in the eyes. "We lose the café."  
  
"No..."  
  
"I know. This is personal. Its dirty business. I don't like it any more than you do, but we don't have much of a choice. Its that, or we go on the run."  
  
Kirika plinked her teaspoon in her saucer. "What does Carlos having us do again?"  
  
"I believe its surveillance. That's all." Mireille walked over to her pool desk and plopped down in the easy chair. "Carlos sent me an e-mail today. It seems his former partners got arrested on warrants in the most western district of Paris, at the Cimetière du Père Lachaise. Who would have thought to see Jim Morrison is beyond my understanding."  
  
"I thought Oscar Wilde was up there as well?"  
  
Mireille nodded. "Yea, he is. So Carlos' hacker friends are out, and the job is in three days."  
  
Kirika wanted to do something else with her life. The café was fine, but it left little time for painting. The painting was fine, but it gave her little money. So many choices, but no real answers.  
  
There had to be something to it, she thought. Was it to enter the area of business again? She thought about the amount of times at being used. She thought about how Soldats had once controlled her life. Altena mapping from careful plans, controlling Kirika future, in one way to another. Nothing had been easy, now that she was free. Kirika had finally discovered that finding her own future had become the most difficult decision in her life.   
  
Was it meant to run a café? Or was it meant to waste away and some boring, no nothing job? Yes, the café had brought her an inner peace she had always desired. It had settled a future that had forever before been cloudy. Now that her future plans were mapped, had it been too much?  
  
She looked back into her mind. A painting. Her life, always surrounded by the forces of Noir. Controlling her. Minding her. She never really tried understand that history, only to remember it. Finally, she faced the past, memories, the truth. With those answers fulfilled, she was at peace.  
  
Now, that past was coming back, reaffirm that her future was secure - no, far from it. It was that her past would always dictate a ever-so cloudy future. For truth, Kirika had taken on choices and decided, each and every time.   
  
"Kirika..." asked the blond.  
  
The brunette looked at Mireille. What, she thought, what actions had she taken in her life? Why, did she make choices to save Mireille. For truth, she answered herself, for her to make sure that her future was as clear as possible.  
  
And now, it looked like Mireille was in trouble. Needing saving. Kirika had noticed her love of the café was not exactly there. That didn't matter. No, there had to be something else in Kirika's life -- and Mireille's life as well. They needed something else...  
  
"Are you ok?"  
  
The younger partner straightened out in her chair. "I'm...fine."   
  
"No..." Mireille smirked. "I meant your little cut there. Let me take a look."  
  
The blond came over to her partner, unwrapping the series of reddened napkins around Kirika's hand. The cut was mostly superficial as it ran across the palm and the thumb. "Don't forget to put bacteria cream on that so it doesn't get infected. Then you'll need plenty of Vitamin E on it to make sure it doesn't scar."  
  
"Do you have those creams here in the apartment?"  
  
"I have some bacteria cream in the medicine cabinet. The Vitamin E is not a pill or cream, but a clear oil. We'll pick up some the next time I'm in the pharmacy market."  
  
Kirika nodded. "Sounds good."  
  
Mireille sighed. "So, have you decided about on our little plan to help Carlos?" The blond was expecting more rebuttals, she did not think Kirika would so willingly go along with the little scheme.  
  
The brunette sat down, relaxed after applying a fresh bandage to her wound. "I'll tell Gretchen to get some additional help on Saturday."   
  
Mireille blinked from her partner's response. "More help...that sound good. I guess we're doing it." The blond furiously typed away at her keyboard. "Telling Carlos now via IM. He says to meet him in the 14th arrondissement, at this corner. Sounds like we're set to me."  
  
"Hai."  
  
"Kirika?" Mireille's voice was as gentle as a lamb. "Thank you."  
  
Kirika smiled, taking another sip of her tea.   
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Morgan was walking over one of the westernmost bridge over the river Seine, farthest from the city yet still within the residential area of Paris. It was quite a walk from the Louvre, to say at least.  
  
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. At one point, he had hoped to kick the cigarette habit. Today was definitely not the day.  
  
"Mr. Carver?" It was a soft accented voice.  
  
The English gentleman turned around to his contact, spotting the brim of her headwear and not hidden face. "Never could get a good glimpse of you, especially with that black witch-like hat you always wear."   
  
"I know, that's the idea." she said. "Meeting like is very dangerous in this business. However, I am here."  
  
"I see…"  
  
"Nor should you be. I presume the information retrieval is going well?"  
  
"Oh course. The Rosetta program will be in our possession in no time." Morgan smiled a bit, turning to look out on the river. "You know, there's this local bistro just down the street from here. It would be nice to have some company for dinner tonight."  
  
"No, thank you, Mr. Carver. I expect it to be in my hands by the end of the day, tomorrow."  
  
"I understand. I will see you then." Morgan waited a bit more for his companion to leave before flagging a cab.   
  
Well, thought Morgan, at least Mireille would ensure for a safe copy and delivery of the merchandise. Thank goodness for that.  
  
  
  
[++++++] 


	2. (2) Innocence

[++++++]  
  
  
  
_____________________________  
(2) Innocence  
  
  
  
Mireille and Kirika walked along the afternoon streets of the festival. The locals were all scurrying around the endless antique stops and bazaars, their doors wide open. In front of each shop, were endless craft tables, lined with more stuff. Buyers milked around, often picking up dullish pieces of tableware and porcelain, examining them to their hearts content.  
  
"Sure is crowed around here." exclaimed Mireille.   
  
"Wow, what is all this?"  
  
"I don't know. Its as busy as Bastille day."   
  
The two ladies turned around the corner to another crowd filled street. In the far distance, was the unmistakable big top of a circus tent. Lining the wide and closed thoroughfare were endless carnival games and shops. They saw the miniature Ferris wheel first, its lighted trestles shined like glitter in a sunset. To the left, were more endless games and rides. And then, the crowd ---  
  
"They're all in costume..." Kirika could only stare as a group of wild safari animal costumes went by them on the right. "Its like six months to Marti Gras."  
  
"I know. His van is over there." Mireille pointed to the non-descript black van on the left corner, almost tucked away on a side street. A big picture of the brick suspension bridge was etched on the side door, the image a bit scraped up by the traffic. "I swear, Carlos loves to stick out like a sore thumb."  
  
"Huh?" Kirika was about to say something else when the van door slid open a crack to darkness. A hand motioned for them to come in from out of the black. Mireille stepped up and dived in without hesitation, Kirika followed her partner into the dark interior. The sliding door quickly shut right behind them  
  
Not a light was on inside the van -- but then lights weren't really needed. The interior was lined with a bank of more than a dozen TV screens, each displaying an color or black and white image. The screens gave off enough bright light to read by.   
  
Kirika and Mireille looked down upon a pair of little stools, provided if they sat down. They waited scrunch up for answers. A swerving leather-backed chair to the front turned around, greeting them.   
  
It was Carlos, with ear jack equipment attached to his head. He was seated on a rolling, swiveling seat, which gave him instant access to any location within the van by the flick of his feet. It also provided him hours of seating comfort. "Hey ladies. Thanks for coming -- and please do take a seat and get comfortable, I've got some background to give you two."  
  
"This is quite an operation you have here." It was more than endless TV banks, for Mireille could see at least two computer terminals, in addition to the laptop setup on the table with wireless Internet. "You just loved to be plugged in everywhere, don't you?"  
  
"Yea, I've got this problem with reality, especially when I can be here for hours. Love my online world, I would even take the artificial one with me wherever I go. Its nice, isn't it?"  
  
"Remind me never to be stranded on desert island with you," said Mireille.  
  
"Well, yea…" floundered Carlos.  
  
"Is that the new Sony notebook with twistable screen? I thought you could only get those in Japan." asked Kirika.  
  
"You're right, my friend." Carlos brought the thin laptop over from his desk. "Actually, let me show you this feature here which is just so cool..."  
  
Mireille coughed, interrupting the learning lesson. "Care to tell me who you are working for? You know I can't stand to be in the dark on all this business."  
  
"Ah, I wish I could. But business is business, after all. You've already been paid the agreed deposit via your Swiss bank account. I do expect your secrecy in all these affairs. I would hate for you two to get hurt by my employers."  
  
The blond blinked. "Of course. I wouldn't expect anything less from us."  
  
"Good. Because I'll tell you anyway, I own you that." Carlos flashed a smile as he swiveled out of sight, pulling some papers from the back area.   
  
Kirika looked over in surprise at Mireille, but the blond was as stoic as a brick.   
  
The phreaker turned back with a manila file in hand. He opened it up to the ladies, as each of them grabbed an opposite corner of the folder, sorting through its contents. Carlos pulled his hand down from over the top, uncovering a few of the key pages.  
  
"Now, this is strictly a drop. Mireille, you're going to be the point of pickup. I need a nice looking lass to actually take the delivery of the materials."  
  
"Lass? You really could do a bit better than me..."  
  
"The attention will be on YOU and not the actions that you'll be doing. While every guy has his eyes on your body, you'll be handed the delivery.   
  
"Hmmm, something about an unsheaved sword?" said Kirika, enjoying every moment.  
  
"Exactly. It's a perfect way, actually."  
  
Mireille heaved a sigh. "I think I can play the sex appeal."  
  
"Great!" Carlos' eyes lit up like spotlights. "I can't wait!"  
  
The blond shot the phreaker a dirty look. "What are the materials, anyway?"  
  
"Sneaky, sneaky, there. I don't exactly know what it is. But its on some sort of electronic media. I would expect it to be small in nature."   
  
"Carlos. Don't try to fool me, I'm one that you've never had the pleasure to be with." Mireille smirked up at her former associate. "But if you're trading credit card numbers again, I'm going to quite upset at you."  
  
"Honest! Its not bank information, at least I'm pretty sure about that." Carlos rubbed back is his hair in frustration. "And no, I don't know exactly what the media is, I'm just the exchanger here because I was local."  
  
"I should have known..."  
  
"Hey! They're paying big bucks!" he exclaimed. "Anyway, I get this job from a old board I visited. The phreaker group is a oldie but a goodie, going by today's name of Falcon Skizm. They're a hack group out of Russia, at least that's where I think they're out of -- damned eastern European phreakers have all the time in the world."   
  
"So this little purchase isn't for you?"  
  
"No, actually I'm working for the buyer in this matter. I'm known as a phreaker, so they asked me to acquire the stuff for them and deliver it. And then they'll double it to see where and who its coming from."  
  
"So, that's the reason for all this equipment," said Kirika.  
  
"Naturally, as soon as I send them the surveillance tape, I get paid double."  
  
Mireille nodded. "Ok, what are the specifics?"  
  
"Well, the drop is suppose to happen over here." Carlos pointed to the upper corner color TV, the screen closest to the girls. It was a crowd of ten or so guys, all huddled around a small table. Behind it, was a black man in simple streets clothes, demonstrating to some tourists the delightful game of three card monty.  
  
The blond put two and two together. "I'm suppose get fooled by this guy's tricks, and he'll pass me the intel?" asked Mireille. "You can't be thinking that the idiot there is the delivery man."  
  
"Yea, that's the idea."  
  
The blond bit her lip. "I don't like it. I can't stand around in public without getting caught in a crossfire, especially with all of these costumed people around."  
  
"There's some protection, by the way. I have a couple of shooters on the roof, but I'll need someone to follow you from behind. Inconspicuous to a fault. That's why I need BOTH of you out there, both as distractions to the obvious." Carlos took a second to swivel his chair to the brunette. "Meaning you, Kirika. And that lovely look of yours."  
  
"Me?" Kirika pointed her herself, flabbergasted. "I never steal anyone's attention!"  
  
Mireille laughed. "She is right, Carlos. Most of the people that have seen Kirika as a treat are dead. Its going to be very difficult to convince anyone that she is a fake draw. I know she's a little girl and everything, but she blends in very well."  
  
"But...!" answered Kirika. "I can stand out!"  
  
Carlos giggled, patting the brunette on the head. "And yes you do look like a little kawaii girl. I can imagine you being a very popular one in Japan." The phreaker swiveled around again, putting a backpack from below his desk. "That's why I have this for you," he said, tossing the bag into Kirika's lap.  
  
The brunette unzipped it in seconds, poking her fingers in, then her eyes. "No way! You have got to be kidding!"  
  
"Let me see..." Mireille's chuckle quickly threatened to break out into a full laugh. "Oh, you are SO wearing this!"   
  
"But Mireille..."  
  
The blond crossed her arm. "You want more time off? Perhaps to paint some oils? Or maybe you want to go visit your new friend at Chartres? Well, here's the way…"  
  
"Well, I guess you're right. But..."  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Carlos was busy running the show from the most convenient seat in the house. His van. "Ok, everyone," speaking through his head microphone, "give me a status report from the roof gardens, please!"  
  
"Spotter one is reporting clear."  
  
"Spotter two is a go."  
  
"Mireille? Kirika? Are you ready to proceed?"  
  
"Yes. Keep the chatter to a minimum, I'm not protected too much from other people, I don't need anyone noting that we're wired." The phreaker could see Mirielle adjusting her inner earpiece for better sound results. Her wireless sound mike was neatly tucked under the neck fold of her red sweater. "You know, I'm surprised that the wires to the transmitter can't be seen on that fine body of yours. Have you been losing weight?"  
  
"Shut up, Carlos. We've got work to do."  
  
"Yes, ma'am. Is Kirika there?"  
  
"Ummm...Hai!" Mireille turned to her partner in costume, wearing the most adorable bunny suit ever seen. Her pinkish face stuck out of the pull-over hood, the rest of her bodysuit was the color of plush white clouds. Even her hands were totally covered, with the full length mittens of the bunny suit. The charming shoulder-length ears swung like pendulums, dangling each time the brunette turned her head. Kirika's non-descript facial expression put the look absolutely over the top.  
  
"Kawaii!" purred Mireille.  
  
Kirika responded with a sulk. "Tell me Carlos is not recording this."  
  
"Oh, I'm getting some nice footage. After all, I could get good money for these tapes -- legendary Noir assassin, now appearing in harmless bunny outfit!"  
  
"Sell them and you're a dead hacker." said Kirika.  
  
"Oh well, it was a nice try."   
  
Mireille looked up at the bank clock across the street. "Time to go, Carlos?"  
  
"Sure is. Go ahead and strut your stuff, my lady."  
  
The blond made a beeline down the center of the road, with Kirika a good ten feet behind. The monty game was just around the corner, on the opposite side of the fair.   
  
"Mommy! Look at the bunny!" A small five year old boy pointed up to Kirika, his left hand firmly held by an adult. He was well-dressed chap in a tan button-down shirt, with a little blue beret on his head. "Can I hug you, bunny?"  
  
Kirika stared a the boy like a deer in headlights. The little guy looked up, smiling, waiting for a response.  
  
Static came over the earpiece. "Come on, open your arms out wide!" Kirika complied, opening up her limbs in a rather robotic fashion, holding them quite wide. "There you go! And smile for the crowd now, we've got to make it look good!"  
  
"Bunny!!"   
  
*GLOMP*  
  
"Mireille," said Carlos, over the wireless line, "wait up for your tail. She's being huggled and maimed in the square by a few kids. I think she's enjoying the attention as well."  
  
The blond had already turned around, smiling. "I can see that. That's ok, I've been antiquing through some of these side booths. Needed a couple of new flower vases." She picked up a rather nice one tinted in blue glass. "Pretty, I think I'll be back to pick this one up later."  
  
"OK ladies, enough distractions. Time to move on now."  
  
"Hai. I'm in position." Kirika was now on the opposite corner to the card game, finally shedding the last of her underage fans.   
  
"Going in." Mireille walked right up to the card table, her hips excessively swaying from side to side. Kirika could swear that the blond had a tighter red sweater on -- or was it that Mireille had gained a little bit of weight?  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
"Gentleman, and I do use my terms loosely. You know the game, and name of the game is finding the bitch." The dark-tanned man was busy tossing three well-worn playing cards on the green card table. Back and forth, shuffling to speeds that were close to impossible for human eyes to match. "Ah, I see we have a lady among the audience. Are you playing, mademoiselle?"  
  
"Oui!" Mireille pulled out a large stack of Francs from her hip pocket.   
  
"Ok, then! Its time to play." He upturned the middle card, showing off the queen of spades. "The bitch is your friend, your job is to avoid those nasty, backstabbing kings. Everyone got it?" The crowd nodded enthusiastically as he hid the queen away.   
  
"Notice how the queen card has a creased corner. Its so slight. You see it there...right?" whispered on of the players in a stained white tennis cap.  
  
"Yea, I saw that as well..." whispered his neighbor.  
  
"Great! Its playing time!" The shyster shuffled around the cards again, with the whole crowd watching the proceedings. He was quick with the cards, bending them on the table, piling them on top of each other back and forth.  
  
Mireille followed the queen with the best of her ability, seeing it finally move to the far left position. "We are done shuffling now, place your bets up to 2000 francs."  
  
"200 on the left card!" said the man in the dirty white hat, throwing the Francs down onto the table.  
  
"Hey, I want 1500 on the left card as well!" shouted his neighbor. He turned to his rather helpful companion. "Yea! I see it, I see the crease!" The other guy was surely enthusiastic about his bet.   
  
Mireille was hesitant on the draw, first pointing to the stack on the right. The tanned man leaned in, watching Mireille's movements carefully.   
  
"I don't know which card to play?" said the blond, "perhaps if I place 300 down on the center one?"  
  
He winked as Mireille pointed to the center stack, confirming the blond's motions. "Tell you what. I'll let you place 700 on the center stack, if you think its there. Then, I'll pay you 1500 extra if you win." The shyster winked again, sliding his hands among the cards.  
  
"Deal." answered Mireille.  
  
The dealer stood back for everyone to hear. "You guys are so easy. Its amazing how fooled you guys were. Hah!" The black man turned the left card over, revealing the king of diamonds. It surely was a backstabbing picture of a king, with his ax pointing ready to pouce to the back of his own skull. A grim dissatisfaction spread among the card-playing patrons, of whispers of bad omens.  
  
"Ahhh, I've lost two days of money." The heavy better was not happy at getting snookered, turning to find his speakeasy companion missing. "Hey! Where the hell did he go!" he said, also bolting from the card game.  
  
The shyster grinned at the blond. "One sucker down, one to go. How about doubling the bet now? After all, your odds just jumped from 1/3 to 2/3."  
  
"I would prefer to stand by my bet."   
  
"Find with me. You could have won some more money." His hand was on the center card, turning it over to Mireille. "Or, I could always be wrong." The other king revealed itself, this time the king of hearts, his own dagger stuck halfway buried into his own skull.  
  
"Jerk." muttered the blond under her breath. She thought about going another round or pulling her gun and causing a scene. Sure, that was probably the right thing to do.  
  
The tanned dealer tossed her a Franc of change, folded over a couple of times. "There you go." Mireille picked up the bill, surprising finding it unbendable in her hand. So, she thought, he just wanted to win some fast cash.   
  
Interrupting her thoughts was the sharp point of heavy cold steel on the back of Mireille's waist. "You two, huh. It figures the blond would be a distraction." Without second thought, the former customer reached around Mireille's body, taking the cash out of her outstretch hand. "I'll be taking my gift prize now. How about it, dealer? Where's your wad?"   
  
"That other guy was working for you, huh." snapped Mireille.  
  
The card shyster shrugged, offering no defense. "Yea, you all got it all figured out. Its so hard to earn a simple buck on the side." He reached into his back pocket with one hand, the other limb still high up into the air. Cursing, he dropped a heavy bundle of folded francs onto the table, the thousands showing.   
  
"Good boy. And that's nice watch you're wearing, dealer."  
  
The tanned man cursed again, dropping his timepiece next to the money. "You're just a two-bit thief, aren't you?"  
  
"What the hell are you talking about? I just want your money!"   
  
Mireille stiffened, unable to turn around to either side and attack her opponent. Even if she did get a clear shot, there were too many people around to dive for cover. It was useless to do anything. It was as she was expecting it...soon.  
  
A silencer gunshot went off, from behind.  
  
Mireille expected the gunshot to pass right through her body. She didn't expect to hear her attacker's body to fall to the ground.  
  
The blond turned around on a dime, to see a costume rabbit with her fur limb pointed out. A small black hole poked directly out from the tip of her thick rabbit glove, for Mireille could swear the exit shot was still smoking.   
  
"Kirika..."   
  
A heavy sound of semi-machine gunfire rained down onto street. The crowd, hearing the shots and seeing one body down, ran for their lives.  
  
"What the hell!" yelled Carlos, over the static-filled wireless channel. "I didn't order fire! Position one and two report!"  
  
Another round of gunfire, this time from the cross direction. Mireille and Kirika dived for the closest cover under the skeletal card table. The card shyster was unprepared at best, a few marks fell true as his lifeless body fell backwards, sliding off the back chain-linked fence.   
  
"Carlos!" yelled Mireille, "where the hell is that fire coming from?"  
  
"One second, I'm moving my cameras around now. The support spotters are gone, my guess is they were already taken out."   
  
Another round of semi-automatic gunfire rang like hail on glass. The flimsy metallic table couldn't take much more punishment, another few rounds of pounding would poke right though the table like swiss cheese. "Anytime, my friend."  
  
"There! One is in the third right window from edge, top floor. White building right across from you, its fricken' far up there. The luxury apartments." Carlos wasn't kidding, the old brownstone was at least a six story walk up. "Second attacker on roof of bank, crouching right behind the time and temperature sign."  
  
Kirika stood up, firing down the street onto the bank's roof. The suit was crouching, his dying momentum made him tumble forward over the digital clock, his hand still on his semi-automatic's trigger. The electronic sign exploded into a glitter of white sparks and fire.  
  
Mireille was shooting up across the street, hitting window panes and building alike -- alas, missing flesh. She looked down at the gambling attacker that Kirika had blown away just a minute before. His bloodied left hand was still open, grasping a wad of stick cash. A metallic gold shine reflected from the open palm, of electronic media.  
  
"Cover me," ordered the blond, shooting a couple of more rounds close to the first attack point.   
  
Kirika jumped up onto the card table, shooting the window frame of the attacker. She realized the attacker fled deeper into the apartment, and her shots were only keeping the attacker away from the window. At least with Kirika firing, the attacker could not fire down upon them.   
  
Mireille crawled up to the dead thief. Using her gun, she peeled his hand open like a week-old orange. Along with the crumpled bills, was an unusual sliver of black, no bigger than the end part of a pinkie finger. It was a electronic memory chip, delicately laced with lines of metallic gold. She grabbed it as another shot rang out, almost hitting her hand.   
  
"Mireille!" She saw her partner was reloading her gun. Her bunny costume was half ripped off, for her extra clips were on 'her' and not on the outside of her faux fur.  
  
Kirika saw the attacker was wiser now, shooting at them and ducking for cover under the window sill. The brunette looked up, staring down a hanging glass fixture, a crystal chandelier swinging wildly from a ricocheted shot. She took careful aim and fired.  
  
It hit the moving chain perfectly on, breaking it. The fixture came down, crashing into the ground. The attacker squealed liked a trapped pig.  
  
Mireille got up from the ground, dusting her black skirt off. "Maybe I'm getting too old for this, I need to practice some more."  
  
Kirika turned around, peeling the rest of her fur suit off. "Hai."  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
"You two make it through ok?" Carlos had the van door open, waving the ladies in. "For a second there, I thought you were goners."  
  
"We're all right." Mireille brushed her hair aside as they entered the van. "What the hell happened here?"   
  
The interior of the van's electronics was shredded. Carlos' display of monitors were mostly shattered, the ones that were on rang with pictures of static. The inside was no longer dark, but penetrated by the roof with an assortment of bullet holes. The place was a mess.  
  
"As soon as Kirika blew away that thief, it rained hell. I guess they thought the thief was the contact. They sure didn't want anyone getting away..."  
  
Mireille was still dusting herself off. "You're telling me."  
  
"And those jerks ruined my favorite set of portable equipment. Oh well, I can make it a tax write-off." He pushed his brand-new Sony laptop aside, the screen was sheered off. "Did you get the intel from that crazy melee?"  
  
Mireille held up the tiny media disk, between her index and thumb fingers. "Got it."  
  
"A MMC card. Not unexpected." Carlos turned back to his desk, dragging a reader out from the rubbish and placing it in his backpack. "Well, the reader I've got here seems intact. That's all I've got. How about a computer?"  
  
"The closest one is at our café." said Kirika.  
  
"Sounds good, let's take a cab."   
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
It was well past noon when then the three of them tumbled into the back of the kitchen.   
  
"Oh hello, everyone," waved Gretchen to the owners. "Its been a really quiet day so far."  
  
Carlos wordlessly made a beeline to the small desk and computer in the corner of the kitchen, immediately booting the machine up. He was already underneath, attaching necessary extra power cords and cables.   
  
"Umm...I'm not sure that Mireille would want her computer touched like that..."  
  
"Gretchen?" Kirika nestled her own arm around Gretchen's shoulders on Mireille's nod, leading her into the front of the house.   
  
Mireille opened the kitchen door to the counter area. "How about going out front for a second? I think you wanted to point to Kirika on that redecorating session for the curtains. Didn't you want to show her what you wanted on those outer windows?"  
  
"Uhh, Yea! I...guess I can do that now..." She smiled politely as the two twin ladies escorted themselves out of the kitchen.  
  
The blond turned back toward the hacker. "Finished taking over my computer for world domination?" She smirked a bit, leaning over Carlos' back. "I would think that my little baby here at work would be a piece of cake for you."  
  
"Yea, simple cake that is it." The phreaker was busy typing away system commands. "Reconfiguring your I/O ports, it seems that your little simpleton is not used to such lavish accessories."  
  
"Well, this will have to do."  
  
"Bah, the intel require custom read specs, and a simple decoding algorithm for displaying the information."  
  
"I thought you said we were specifically not to look at the intel?" scolded Mireille.  
  
He chuckled. "Ahh, but you can never keep a good phreaker down." Carlos imputed a couple of more command entries, finally running the decoding program. "There we go!" He leaned back in chair with a smug expression on his face. "It was a piece of cake."  
  
The screen poured with out with a waterfall of numbers and letters. It certainly wasn't writing. "Is this...decoded?" asked Mireille, trying to decipher the apparent gibberish information on the screen.  
  
"What the hell?" Carlos cut the retrieval program, starting it from the beginning once again. To his dismay, it threw back at him the same garbage result. "This is decoded. Its even confirmed itself that this is the decoded message. Someone would say that this garbage that is still coded with another layer, but...that's not the case here. There are exactly zero pattern matches in the data."  
  
"No matches? What does that mean?"  
  
Carlos sunk his head into his lap. "Even coded information has repetitive information -- the word 'the', for example is repeated in a word translation. That's a simple explanation, and some codes are meant to hide that type of simpleton solution from coming up. But this code has no anomalies at all, like its been stripped down of any type of repetitiveness, purposely to tool with our heads."  
  
Mireille frowned. "You're kidding. I can't believe all this far for..." as she stared agape into the display, "What in the world?" as Mireille pointed to the screen.  
  
"Well, there's an anomaly to be sure." said Carlos.   
  
The character output was filled with a single letter, 'i.' Then, it stopped and cleared the screen.  
  
Carlos typed a couple of commands. "Well, that's all there is. The rest of the disk is damaged beyond repair. Though I doubt it would have mattered anyway." He disconnected the gismo from Mireille's terminal and packed up his bags. "You've already been paid via electronic transfer, so that's about it."  
  
"Carlos..." Mireille hung her head low. "You know a lot more on what's going on right now. Why can't you tell me? I'm good for it."  
  
The phreaker leaned against the back door, shaking his head. "You know I can't do that, Mireille." He open his hand up, placing it onto the side of Mireille's face, gently brushing away her delicate curls of hair. "I can't say anymore. Yea, I'm in trouble, but let me remind you the last time you did anything about it."  
  
The blond nodded her head, deciding to remain silent.  
  
Mireille's friend slipped out the back door. "Goodbye, Carlos."  
  
The blond sighed against the wall, sighing. After all these years, he still doesn't trust me, thought Mireille. Even though we done countless jobs together, history is history to us. To Carlos, that is.   
  
She didn't feel like doing to much else. Perhaps a nice long shower, and a chance to curl up with a magazine in bed. Maybe a spot of tea, she was sure Kirika would be home early as well. Yes, those sounded like some wonderful ideas.   
  
She was about to turn off her computer when it pinged of new e-mail. Interested, she opened it up.   
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Mireille marched around the crowded tourists and their annoying children. The waiing visitors had been on line for nearly an hour, the line queue to them seemed endlessly long. She avoided the tourists, approaching the information booth instead. "I here for my pass to the special archives. My name is Marie Michel."  
  
The guest attendant quickly responded. "Mademoiselle Michel, if you would please follow the guard to the archives, he'll lead you past the security checkpoints." The efficient security personnel quickly ushered the blond past the moveable ropes.  
  
"Hey, how come she gets in while we have to wait!" shouted an angry tourist. The guy's face was flushed red with sweat and pain from impatience. Behind him, the crowd of strangers rudely pushed forward towards the entrance.   
  
"Please, be patient," said the guest attendant. "Ms. Michel is special guest and contributor to the museum. We will admit all of you shortly."  
  
The tourist scowled, turning his head away from the front, nodding his head. A suit from inside of the group nodded, slipped out and disappeared.  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
"Wait here." The guard left Mireille in one of the many cavernous gallery rooms, a rectangular one lined with a series of life-sized oil paintings. The longer side of the room was covered with a single masterpiece, of mythic characters in life-size poses. The oil work was at least 15 feet high, and almost twice as wide by that much.   
  
"Remarkable, actually. He spent the period of almost four years painting this work." said Morgan.  
  
"Who?" asked Mireille.  
  
"Charles Le Brun." said Morgan. "You see the golden figure there, don't you?"  
  
"You can't miss him…" Mireille looked at the center of the painting of a young man, wrapped in a golden tunic. He was perched high on his exquisite ivory chariot, overlooking the chaos of his plundering troops. "Roman?" she asked.  
  
"No, a Greek scene, actually. Why do you suppose Le Brun painted this work, hmmm?" Morgan crossed around to the other side of Mireille. "Maybe, it was to compare to his current Baroque existence, perhaps to the reign of Louis the XIV?"  
  
The blond looked up from the index information card next to the oil. "Yes, he did it to compare his current ruler to the legend of Alexander the Great.   
  
"Yes, he did. But why?"  
  
Mireille thought for a second, then answered. "To emulate is greatest flattery of all."  
  
"Exactly." Morgan pulled out a cigarette and lit it all in one motion. "Makes me wonder about yourself, Mireille. You have the opportunity of most mortal men only desire. Instead, you reject it. Its only my reason to ask why."   
  
Mireille turned her head, half expecting to bust out with some more answers. "You can ask away, Morgan. But that doesn't mean you'll ever know."  
  
Morgan paused for a second, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth onto the more than 400 year old painting.  
  
"Didn't they ever tell you that smoking in a museum is prohibited?" commented the blond. "Really, now. You have no manners."   
  
"I? That I have no manners? I'm not the deadly assassin in this case." He threw the rest of cigarette onto the floor and mashed the light with the heel of his foot. "Never mind, then. I'm assuming that you have recovered a copy of the information from Carlos."  
  
"No, I haven't." Mireille stonewalled, placing her hands on her hips. "The intel was useless. Carlos and I checked it out. It's almost all garbage."  
  
"I'm sure Carlos checked it out to his high usual standards. After all, he is one of the most informed experts on electronic code breaking." Morgan let out puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth, depositing it onto the ancient painting. "You said most of it was garbage, what else was there?"  
  
"Yea, there was a point in the data that was consistent. What does the letter 'i' mean. And what significance to you?" asked Mireille.  
  
He took another drag, a long one. "None that I know of, in fact," countered Morgan, turning his eyes away from the blond.  
  
Liar. And a piece of scum, thought Mireille. She very much wished to take his piece of flotsam hide and throw the bastard into the Seine.   
  
"Well. I'm certainly glad you got me the information."   
  
The blond was doing her best to falsely smile at Morgan. "It's a shame that the intel is useless. However, I expect you to keep up your end of the bargain."  
  
"Very well. Within forty-eight hours, your records will be purged from European and American databases." Morgan walked toward the exit, turned around for a second before leaving. "Oh, and you ran this on Carlos' machine from his van?"   
  
"No, we ran the memory chip from my computer at the café," responded Mireille. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Ah, no reason." Mireille was going to press him further, but he was already gone.  
  
  
[++++++]   
  
  
Mireille needed a walk to figure out what the hell was going on, she thought. First, Morgan is disappointed with the information. Then, he can't even look at me when I tell him about the 'i'. There's some significance in that, and then the bastard runs off.  
  
'i.' What the hell does 'i' have to do with this? Its just me, isn't it? And why did he ask where I ran the intel? It shouldn't matter...  
  
"Oh crap." And she switch directions, running to the nearest bridge over the river Seine.  
  
  
[++++++  
  
The weather had just turned, menacing clouds were rolling in from the west, starting to cover the sky with danger. A few drops of moisture were already falling, hitting the dry ground, leaving their little bodies to wet the surface. The rain was harder, heavier, as the drops started plunking away with little abandon.  
  
Mireille turned the corner.  
  
Almost there. Only a few more blocks up the street until she would reach the café. Kirika must be surrounded already, in the kitchen defending herself against the suits. They were unknowns, going after Kirika -- they might have tangled with the brunette once already.   
  
A gunshot rang against the red-bricked building behind her. With total instinct, Mireille had her gun out, facing in the direction of the gunfire. Firing. A few nameless fell down in the distance, as she ran up the street.   
  
A stir across the way, on a second floor balcony. A ringing of shots made the blond dive for cover behind a small car, taking shelter behind its rear wheel. Automatic gunfire continue to rain down, stronger than the heaviest raindrops could ever be. Her protective car's windows were shattered in seconds, pilfering its glass onto the ground. The stucco apartments behind here weren't doing that much better, chipping debris from the damper of bullet fire.  
  
She could wait no longer. Diving backwards onto her side, she stuck her pointed gun from almost underneath the back of the car, firing as soon she saw shadows on the second floor. Mireille found her targets quickly, with suits dropping off and around the edge of the overhang.  
  
She picked herself off the wet ground, the side of her red top all stained with gutter mud. She ignored it until she noticed the splinters in her right leg, from flying glass. Mireille cursed, her legs were rarely covered and beauty-wise she had paid the price.   
  
She ran again, this time with her gun out, firing down the road. A few Parisian locals were still on the streets, covering themselves up with the latest fashion of patterned umbrellas. So shocked at seeing a beautiful stranger, waving her piece around on the crowded street that they just stood there, their mouths agape in utter amazement.  
  
She turned another corner.   
  
There. There was the café. The lights were totally out, a bit strange for the time was well before closing even if it was close to dark. A couple of customers were milling around the front door, peeking in for a few seconds, possibly to taste one of Kirika's amazing pastries.   
  
Mireille looks again at the outside tables and chairs, strange that they had not even been stacked up and locked away for the night. It wasn't like this was totally safe neighborhood, after all, who waives around with a gun in their hand, shooting at strangers?  
  
Mireille tried not to think that much of it, pocketing her gun.  
  
She ran right up to the door, reaching out and tugging at the lock. The door was glassed, she could she into the café the presence of unfinished drinks, unwashed dishes and half-eaten pastries still scattered around the tables and chairs. The floor was still rather crumby, not brushed and cleaned for the night, still with evidence of earlier customer sessions.  
  
"I think its closed ma'am." An older couple was walking away from the café. The gentleman, a regular that Mireille could identify, was smiling a bit as the couple walked away, holding each other's hands.  
  
"We're going to try the stop a couple of blocks down. I do hope this place opens up again." They smiled as Mireille turned her attention to the door.   
  
Damn! She didn't have her keys -- breaking the glass would probably be a good idea right now. Taking out her firearm, she turned the barrel towards her, throwing the butt of the gun into the glass. Little resistance was met as the glass door pane shattered.  
  
A sense of urgency rushed around her, as she wanted very much to step right into the café. But the break had not been clean, she needed a couple of seconds to break more broken shards of glass from the framed door. As she did, Mireille could smell the fresh pastries, the coffee grinds, and most of all was the heavy odor of gasoline.  
  
Time stopped.  
  
She saw it all go to yellow, then red. First, the swinging doors to the kitchen, the twin entrances opened wide, letting out fire and flame alike. Their doors could not stay on forever, they were quickly thrown off their own hinges.  
  
"KIRIKA!"  
  
Mireille stumbled back, diving toward the ground, unable to physically do much else. In her head, it all came together. The e-mail from Morgan had been nothing more than a trap to her, getting the two of them separated from each other. Divide and conquer. She cursed at herself for being so fooled by the agent.  
  
Her mind said for her to go in and find the precious friend, Kirika…for she was still in there. The blond was determined to go in, find her partner and rescue her from such unrevealing fools of terrorism. But that was only her mind -- her body could not obey…  
  
"Kirika!'  
  
Her body rolled away for safety, just past the falling timbers of the front door. A few second later, and the explosion rang instant flames throughout the building, the back of the café was already gone. The front, without the support of the rest of the bakery, folding onto itself into a heap of fire.  
  
Mireille stiffened out, trying to decide what to do next. Her entire left side had taken most of the damage, burned from the explosion, blackened and charred on the shoulder. The left side of her face, was flushed red, a bit of her golden hair darkened by the soot and dust.   
  
Still on the ground, Mireille was surprised to find herself clear of the café, well over to the other side of the street. She leaned back, looking at her former home of business. Grimacing in pain, she looked down at herself, the skin on her arm was already splintering and bleeding. She tried to reach around with her right arm, but was unable to pull her left arm back across her body.   
  
"No..." Mireille could only look into the fire, the flames licking away at the wood and casing. A steady stream of tears fell from her eyes. They slowly dripped off the side of her face, she could feel the moisture of the them roll across her cheek.  
  
Sirens rang out aloud, as strangers ran for cover. Mireille could sense the emergency crews coming, police asking questions. The trail of dead suits just around the corner would undoubtedly lead to more questions -- still, she had to be sure.  
  
She looked up. Where there café had once been, it was little more than a pile of rubble. The ceiling was draped over the rest of the building, hiding the evidence of a once vibrant scene. Smoke and embers swirled around the former building, circulating around and swarming yet never deciding to leave. They were forever guardians of the scenes, guards that had witnessed death and destruction. They were there, now, waiting for their assignment time to be up. It wasn't time yet…No, it wasn't time.  
  
Mireille managed to finally scrape herself off the pavement. She watched new embers dance among the edges of the collapse. They circled around, as they slowly devoured new parts of the building. Laughing, flocking, sharing partners among themselves, these embers walked among the smoke as stepchildren for the dead.   
  
She couldn't stand it anymore, as she collapsed back down to her knees. She felt a sudden luckiness to have barely survived the blast. Reaching up onto her hair, feeling moisture, thinking it was raining again, that an umbrella might have been a good idea at the moment.   
  
Mireille looked at her hand. Blood. Her head had been traumatized by debris. She couldn't react at all, the moisture, the pain. It all fell in as her upper body fell to the ground. She welcomed the unconsciousness.   
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Kirika, Mireille thought. Did you escape? You got away without the pain...For only I should been so lucky.   
  
Mireille remembered that sunny day on the beach. Ah, that was such nice weather. She looked over at Kirika, in her sun hat, and full length dress. "Are you all right, Kirika?" she asked.   
  
"Hai."  
  
"Well, then, please enjoy the weather. They say it can't be perfect all the time."  
  
Kirika nodded, then smiled. "I am enjoying myself, Mireille. Its different then from the first time, hmmm?"  
  
Those were the dreams that Mireille had. It was the reason for the café. It was why Noir was Noir no longer. It was why she lived. Discovered that about it, haven't you...she thought.  
  
Please...take me, instead of her! I don't deserve this...  
  
She cried in anger. In fear. She held her gun nose, outward, facing, pointing. Firing. Into the smoke, the fire, the embers.   
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
What does one think about when one is about to die?   
  
It was on Kirika's mind at the moment. Seeing fire in front of here eyes. It was angry, upset that it earlier defeats. Missing Kirika so many times before, it was determined to get even, it was here to win.   
  
The movements slowed down to mere seconds right before her very eyes. What had once taken instants was now a journey of minutes and hours. Father Time had judged this to be a moment of patience -- it was longer than many passing events that Kirika had ever seen. Longer than the time it takes for a leaf to flow down a bubbling stream. Or the occasion it takes for the strand of seaweed, to be captured by water and brought back into the sea. It was much, much longer than that.  
  
"Why?" asked Kirika.  
  
The fire rumbled along, eating away at the kitchen ceiling with its heart content. Because, its my purpose, it answered.  
  
"Did you have to take my life like that? Have I lived all that I could be?"  
  
No, of course not, the fire said. We do not control the fates of the world.   
  
"I never asked for this." She stretch her arm in an outstretched moment of weakness. "All I've asked for in my life is for the truth. And even you, fire, can't give me the answers I need."  
  
The fire rumbled -- first answering in silence, then giving the response it could only give. It said it never had answers, never the purpose to decide what is right from wrong. It had no decision powers of its very own.  
  
"Very well. Then I have already been judged by someone else that had dealt me a card of fate."  
  
And the fire came closer, Kirika could feel the heat against her cheek. She did not resist the danger as it came closer. It reached out, delicately touching tender skin.  
  
"I am not afraid. I am not afraid of...the truth. I know the truth."  
  
If you would be the real seeker after truth, the fire said.  
  
"Then," answered Kirika, "you must at least once in your life doubt, as far as possible, all things."  
  
Then you do remember me, don't you, answered the fire.  
  
"Yes, I do. And I obey."  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
"Kirika..."  
  
Mireille's eyes fluttered open to light. It was a bright room, a white ceiling. Something else was white as well, the top spikes of someone's' hair.  
  
"Carlos..." Mireille tried to speak, but the words were not coming out. Her mouth was parched. It fact, it was dry in the room as well. "Water..."  
  
Carlos passed her a small blue cup filled halfway. She reached out with her right hand, noticing the hospital ID bracelet securely attached around the wrist. The blond took no hesitation, grabbing the paper cup, chugging down the lukewarm liquid. No use in sipping slowly, she thought.  
  
She pulled her arm down and looked into his eyes. "Kirika...where is she?"  
  
Carlos was absolutely still. "Mireille...I'm sorry."  
  
Mireille turned around in the bed onto her side, facing away from her associate. "When did you..."  
  
"They couldn't even recognize her for three days. There was nothing left except black and bones. It's a miracle that the police identified her, he had to pull her doctor's records."  
  
Mireille turned in her bed the other way. "Three days? How long have I...been here!"  
  
"Almost two weeks. You've got a nasty knock to the head. I'm surprised you haven't noticed the large wrap around your head. A dislocated right shoulder and a couple of broken ribs will keep you from doing summersaults for some time."  
  
The blond straightened out in her bed. A well of tears was already forming in her eyes, threatening to reach a downpour stage. "Leave me. Now."  
  
"But...Mireille..."  
  
"GET OUT!"  
  
Carlos got up from his chair. "I can see I'm not wanted here. I'll see you tomorrow." And he quickly let himself out.  
  
Mireille shifted away from the closing door, toward the window. It was a very small hospital room, with only room for one. She did not need company.   
  
She sighed, hugging her sheets close to her chin.   
  
"Kirika..."  
  
  
[++++++]   
  
  
Mireille drifted around the apartment, endlessly. The late sun had been too strong, even the outside shutters were closed. She wasn't in the mood for much. Nothing to do at all.  
  
Carlos had dropped over a few bundles of fresh foods and snacks. Mireille was disappointed with the selections, for Americans really had no sense of European food. The simple cheeses and breads that he had picked up surmised to the blond that Carlos did indeed have very bland taste. No brie, no eggs. Heh, the unrefrigerated eggs mush have scared the phreaker. She was even more upset over the six pack of cheap American beer. Even though Mireille had not been much of a drinker, she was sure Carlos would have been smart enough to buy a bottle of wine as per her asking for alcohol. Guess not.  
  
After a few more days or so, she took her frustration out on poor Carlos. He didn't put up much of a fight, feeling guilty about the trace back from the intel to Mireille and Kirika's café. But after re-examining the information, he discovered the ruse. He had taken a security risk, and it had failed.   
  
Still, she accused Carlos of foul play. The phreaker didn't argue the point, instead he silently packed his overnight bag and left. No a peep, not a word. Nothing he left was good, but then, Carlos could never utter a bad word about Mireille and her choices. It was another time Carlos had felt guilty to Mireille's plight, this time he made sure a third time would never happen at all costs.  
  
For Mireille, she didn't dare go out. No point in leaving if there was no place to go, no job to do. Most of the paperwork had been filled out by her landlord of the café, for Mireille had in the hospital for over three weeks. Even the bureaucrats of Paris moved quickly under certain circumstances. By the time she was home, the insurance company was already reimbursing her for the loss of the business  
  
Instead, she had time. Mireille had gone on with re-organizing of her apartment. It was spring cleaning all over again, as the blond cleaned through several closets that had been nagging her the last few months. She never really had the time, especially with the café once open all the time.   
  
Those closets were fully stocked of winter stuff -- endless blankets, flannel sheets, and winter over garments. All the beddings of home. She tugged them down, thinking that relining the shelves was a good starting project. She tugged down a comforter from the top shelf, causing it to tumble out of its precarious position. Following the bedding, was a squarish box, that landed right into Mireille's lap.  
  
It was a hat box.   
  
Mireille scanned the designer box, from one of the more expensive fashion houses of Paris. She ripped at the ribbon, tugging the top away at the same time.   
  
Folding the white tissue paper aside revealed a rather fashionable hat. Not just any hat, but the hat that she had pointed to in the fashion magazine from a month before. The one she showed Kirika as a must buy, the one if they were ever in the business again. It was only few days between that memory and her passing, and Kirika had snuck out and bought the hat on her own.  
  
She held the hat in her hand, trying it on. Dropping the hat box onto the ground, it fell rather clumsily, listing over to one size. Something else was in the box.  
  
Mireille reached to the ground, searching through the tissue paper, looking for the weight. It was wrapped in the corner of the box, and as she tugged at it, the tissue paper unfolded like a dress, dropping the weighted object into her palm.  
  
One repaired pocket watch. The cover flicked open, playing its song.   
  
Mireille could no longer stand as the pocket watch played its familiar tune. Kirika could certainly not had time to have it changed. When did it get repaired, Mireille thought. It must have been from before...but how? How did this happen?  
  
Kirika had never left...no, that was impossible. There was no way, the government had confirmed it, even the police called the mystery closed...but still....  
  
Yes, the memory of that song brought a reality back to Mireille. One of aguish, of where search for the truth - can only lead you to more hurt and pain. It wasn't fair that Kirika had escaped so easily, and Mireille had to bear with the pain for the rest of her life.   
  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
......Almost five years later...  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Mireille leaned back into her seat on the Air France concord. Couldn't sleep, she thought. These Trans-Atlantic flights were an absolute nightmare. She thought how this was an effort to bury something…she didn't know if it was a promise, or a hope to complete a story.   
  
To bury what? Maybe it wasn't to forget to past, but the relive it. Remember it. Whatever the reason, someone wanted her here, that much was sure.  
  
She pulled the postcard from out of her tweed jacket pocket. It was a lovely spring picture of a park, a fountain spraying water. The blond turned it over to her written address. Besides her personal address in Paris, there were two other reasons why she was here. It not that she didn't want to be here, but the clues made it a must for Mireille to come.   
  
'i'   
  
That was who it was from, 'i.' A neatly typed character from a typewriter. But that wasn't only clue, for there was a message to its location. It was on top of the airmail stamp, was the postmark. A very special postmark, for those Americans made it incredibility easy to trace. Because that postmark could have only come from one singular place.  
  
The plane bumped. "May I have your attention, please. We will be landing at Kennedy Airport in New York in twenty minutes. If you have not done so, please raise your tray tables to their..."  
  
Mireille remembered why she was here. It was for truth.   
  
She leaned back and waited for her journey to begin once again...  
  
  
[++++++]  
  
  
Author's notes:  
  
Hey, how am I doing? Anyway, expect a chapter every month or two...having a great anguishing time writing this story. ^_-  
  
- Incantrix  
incantrix@dreamclouds.com  
  
  
[++++++] 


End file.
